HOUSE OF USHER
by AndiiV
Summary: A story focussing on the character of Cort and his adventures as the new town marshal of Redemption. Every day is a battle as Cort tries to reconcile faith with the violent demands of his new job. Things are further complicated by a flashy, big time preacher who seems to be taking a special interest in him. If you like, please review. It's like Klondike gold.
1. Prologue

_PROLOGUE_

**Cort was back in purgatory. **

And the worst of it was he knew he deserved it.

He lay sprawled face-down in the desert dirt, exactly where he'd fallen hours before. At least it felt like hours, it might only have been minutes, he had no way of telling. Time had passed though because it was getting cold and last time he'd opened his eyes it was dark. He'd smelled food cooking and his empty stomach growled in response but he was too tired and sick to eat, even if any of it should happen to come his way, which he doubted. He was too exhausted even to move and since moving hurt like hell anyway, it was easier to stay put. He drifted in and out of sleep, which might have been unconsciousness; the only thing he could smell now was the blood and sweat on his own body.

Something large but soft hit his cheek and he heard it thud away into the sand. He didn't really care what it was, only that it hadn't hurt, but a painful jerk of the manacles on his wrists and Ratsy's nasal whine of a voice, slurring slightly, soon informed him.

"There's your supper preacher, eat it before it goes cold."

They both had a good laugh at that, Ratsy and Foy, and he finally forced his eyes open and raised his head just enough to look over at them. It took a while to focus but he saw what he'd expected, his two tormentors sitting around a campfire and chugging from a bottle of whisky. The other end of the long chain attached to his shackles, his own personal leash, was in Ratsy's fist and he hoped to God the bastard didn't keep yanking on it. He didn't think his arms could take much more abuse but also knew that as they got drunker they'd dream up increasingly creative ways to hurt and humiliate him. He'd found that out last night and was bone weary of being their object of recreational violence. Cort glared, loathing the sight of them, wishing he had a gun in his hand right now.

Foy glanced across at him, caught the look and his face hardened.

"Quit staring like that, preacher, I ain't in the mood for fire and brimstone."

He lumbered unsteadily to his feet and lurched over. Cort braced himself, waiting for another blow to land but instead Foy stooped to retrieve something then dropped a hunk of bread into the dirt next to him.

"Don't go dying on us you hear? Mister Herod needs you alive."

He couldn't eat, not now, and it was one of the few things they couldn't force him to do. Maybe he'd try later. Right now the physical effort of lifting his head had set it spinning and pounding again; a wonderful little combination of concussion, heatstroke and dehydration. It made it hard to think straight, to remember how he'd arrived at this sorry, Godforsaken place. Did he even want to remember?

He stumbled around in a chaos of scattered thoughts before spotting the elusive recollection and he grasped at it before it could flitter away. And once more he saw the vision he knew he'd never forget as long as he lived; which might not be too much longer, all things considered.

The mission, _his_ mission, his home for the past three years, burning before his eyes as he lay in the mud, chained like a dog. Ratsy's boot between his shoulder blades and a shotgun aimed at his head. Ratsy and Foy were laughing, complementing each other on a successful night's work. They'd been laughing as they'd beaten him almost senseless too, clearly enjoying it and Cort cursed himself for not putting up some kind of fight. Even though he was unarmed and they were carrying guns, even though they'd taken him completely by surprise and he'd sworn to renounce violence, if he'd known they were going to torch his church he would have died trying to protect it. It was the only thing he'd ever really cared about.

He'd spent much of the next two days wishing he really was dead. The butt of Ratsy's shotgun slamming into his left temple finished his view of the burning chapel and he'd awoken to the heat of a desert morning, with the headache from hell, tied across the saddle of a horse with a blood-streaked flank. He'd thought the animal was injured until he'd come to realise the blood was his own. Once Foy and Ratsy saw he'd regained consciousness they decided his horse needed a rest and told him he could walk for a while. Actually they made him walk most of the day, on the end of that long chain, and the pace was always too fast to be comfortable. More often than not he'd been dragged along, shoulders aching with the constant strain, the iron manacles twisting and chaffing on his wrists, sweat and sand rubbing his skin raw. A few times Ratsy found it amusing to kick his horse into a fast canter, seeing how long Cort could keep up before falling over. It was never long.

So ended day one, chained to a dead tree with half a loaf of stale bread and a cup of water for nourishment. Ratsy and Foy entertained themselves by throwing bits of their own supper at him and, later on, stones and rocks. If he forgot to grunt or moan when they hit, or if he fell asleep long enough not to notice, one of them would come over and kick him, making sure he was still alive. As they got drunker the blows grew heavier. It didn't stop until they'd drunk themselves to sleep.

Day two wasn't much of an improvement and it was still another full day's ride – or walk in Cort's case - to Redemption. Whatever John Herod had lined up for him there would probably make this little trip seem quite pleasant.

Something smacked against Cort's head, pitching him out of the not-so-pleasant reverie. It seemed as though Foy and Ratsy had begun their evening's sport. He remembered to moan, to let them know he'd felt it. It was better than another kick in the ribs or guts. Now his head was hurting even worse and the welcoming chasm of unconsciousness was yawning before him. He fought it, didn't want to fall all the way in. God only knew what might befall him while passed out. Now he was only dimly aware of anything beyond pain, discomfort and utter exhaustion, but it seemed like there was a new voice in the camp.

Opening his eyes was beyond contemplation so Cort strained his ears, certain he must be imagining or hallucinating the sound, but there it was again. He heard his own name mentioned, heard Ratsy's voice rise in some kind of protest, but couldn't make out any of the conversation. Footsteps approached and he tensed, waiting for the blow which didn't come. Finally he had no choice but to open his eyes and try to figure out what was happening. He got a bleary look at a man standing over him and then the stranger squatted down, reaching out a hand. Cort flinched away but the man smiled.

"Easy son, I'm not gonna hurt you."

Cort was transfixed by the man's eyes, the kind you didn't forget in a hurry. They were ice blue and seemed to be boring right into his soul. They were tempered with compassion and something else he couldn't quite read.

"You look like you could use a drink, my friend."

Cort focussed on what he was holding. It was water canteen and right now it looked like heaven on earth. He rolled onto his side and reached awkwardly for it. The chains made every movement difficult but all he cared about was getting at the flask. He drained its contents in one long, breathless draught and handed it back to its owner with a pang of remorse.

"I didn't mean to take it all, but I can't remember the last time…"

The man smiled and patted his shoulder.

"You're welcome, Cort. It's the least I can do. I'll pray for you, son."

Cort frowned, how could this stranger know his name? He'd never seen him before. He opened his mouth to ask but the man was already striding back to the campfire, over to Foy and Ratsy. This time Cort could hear his words clearly and they didn't sound friendly.

"That's a man of the cloth you've got there, you should treat him more kindly."

Ratsy's snivelling voice, protesting: 'Hell mister we only got…"

The man took a step closer, silencing him. "If you don't, I'll come looking for you, understand?"

The threat was unmistakable and seemed to register even in Ratsy's whisky-addled brain.

"Whatever you say." Ratsy looked over and Cort could see disappointment written all over his face.

He smiled then instantly regretted it. It made his jaw ache.


	2. Chapter One

**A crash brought Cort** rudely to his senses and he spat out a curse. It was automatic, out of his mouth before he'd registered what he'd said but two passing women got an earful. Two pairs of accusing eyes swivelled in his direction.

"I never heard a preacher use language like that."

She said it loud enough for anybody in the vicinity to hear and Cort felt his face redden. While he was certain they'd both heard a lot worse, probably from their own husbands, the part of him that had once been a priest was embarrassed at having used those particular words. He inclined his head towards the woman who'd spoken.

"I apologise for the outburst ma'am, but I'm not a preacher anymore."

"More's the pity, young man. You should keep your manners in mind, especially when there's ladies present." She eyed him severely then grabbed her friend's sleeve and they headed towards the general store.

Cort watched them go, knowing they'd spread this unsavoury finding all over town, then glanced around for whatever had woken him from his unplanned evening siesta. It looked like somebody had thrown a heap of wood from the roof of the blown-out building opposite and he relaxed, it was nothing that needed his intervention right now. He took a reflective sip of beer from the bottle beside him on the hotel veranda and rubbed at the scabs on his wrists.

He could still remember every detail of that interminable journey, as evidenced by his recent dream, when all he wanted to do was forget. It had taken the best part of three weeks but his body had pretty much gotten over the damage inflicted by Ratsy, Foy and the ugliness associated with the shooting contest. Cort flexed his right hand, his gun hand. It still hurt a little but he could use it just fine which was fortunate. Redemption was currently a beacon to every outlaw, drunk, undesirable and opportunist for miles around. With John Herod gone they figured it was open season, but they'd reckoned without the presence of the new, able but not entirely willing Town Marshal.

Cort thought about going inside the hotel to get another beer. He'd been drinking too much lately, knew people were starting to gossip, but if they didn't like it they could shove it. It wasn't stopping him doing the job, sometimes it helped and it wasn't like he was getting paid for it anyway. He'd been promised a decent wage, eventually, but right now the town was flat broke and he was living on the charity of its people, reliant on them for food and lodging while running up sizeable tabs in the saloon and liquor store.

Cort wasn't even sure why he'd agreed to become marshal; sometimes it seemed an act of certain suicide. He was totally alone here; no backup, no deputies, not even a cell to lock up the worst offenders and more of them seemed to arrive with every passing day. He'd gotten by so far on reputation, rapidly revived and heavily exaggerated following Herod's death. _Cort the Killer_, John Herod's most ruthless deputy, still the fastest gun in the territory and currently acting as a lawman. It was like a rallying cry for every desperado within earshot to come try his luck. One day soon Cort knew his luck was going to run out.

The marshal's office was in the process of being rebuilt, having lain in ruins for the longest time, and Cort looked forward to the day it was done. At least then he'd have a home of sorts. Then perhaps he might stop feeling so restless, disconnected and abjectly alone. It was like everybody in Redemption was keeping him at arm's length; afraid to let him go but even more afraid to accept him into their society. He supposed he could understand it. The people of this town, the decent ones at least, had lived in terror for so long they found it difficult to trust anybody who hadn't suffered the extended reign of tyranny alongside them. While Cort had suffered too, and the whole town watched it happen, nobody had helped him then and nobody wanted to know him now, except when they were in trouble. He supposed he understood that too.

To hell with it, he was getting another beer. He brought it back outside and resumed his evening vigil. He liked to see who was coming and going and it was usually around sundown when anybody intent on causing trouble would head towards the saloon. The hotel veranda was a good vantage point, offering clear views to both ends of town and if things stayed settled he could sit out here, quietly drinking until he was sure he could sleep. Then it was only a short stagger to his room upstairs.

His peripheral vision caught movement in the street and he tensed, his hand moving instinctively to the army colt on his right hip, but it was only Foy slinking over to the bordello. When he saw Cort he lowered his head and scuttled inside. Cort glowered after him. He'd known that bastard was still in town but with his boss and best buddy in the ground, Foy had been keeping a low profile, avoiding the new marshal like his life depended on it. Seeing him again reminded Cort of something he needed to do. He'd finish this beer then maybe he'd go do it.

His mind returned to the dream: half dead in the desert with only the promise of more pain and humiliation to come. The man in the dream, that stranger with the piercing blue eyes had pretty much saved his life but Cort wasn't even sure he was real. Something about the encounter chilled him to the bone but he was convinced he hadn't imagined it. That stranger had put the fear of God into Ratsy and Foy. It over-rode John Herod's grip of iron and they began treating him better. They'd let him sleep all night, fed and watered him properly for the rest of the journey and allowed him to actually ride his horse. Of course it all went to shit as soon as they reached Redemption, but he was at least better prepared to deal with it.

The stranger had known his name and that bothered Cort, but the respect shown for his former calling bothered him more. It reinforced the guilt and self-loathing which sometimes threatened to overwhelm him completely. How had God's loyal and devout servant so quickly disregarded his faith when somebody put a gun back into his hand? Cort felt as though the past three years of his life had been a lie and, worse than that, a delusion.

He was no preacher, he knew that now, and God surely despised him for deceiving his congregation in Hermasillo. Perhaps the persistent dream was God's way of telling him something fundamental. Cort suspected he was headed for purgatory and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it. He finished his beer and sighed. He'd need to get royally drunk tonight.

He made his way over to the bordello. He'd not set foot inside since Ratsy had dragged him there nearly three weeks ago and he wasn't entirely comfortable going in now. He'd been no stranger to this kind of place back in the bad old days with Herod and the gang, but afterwards there had been the three year vow of chastity. It had slipped now and then for sure, and he wasn't proud of that, but the women had always come to him first and he'd always been too weak to resist.

Eugene Dred, the original bordello owner, had been killed during Herod's shooting contest and one of the whores had stepped up swiftly to fill his shoes. She called herself Madame Rochelle and seemed pleased enough to see Cort. She greeted him with a knowing smile as he entered the parlour and poured him a glass of whisky.

"If it ain't our pretty marshal dropped by to say howdy. The girls been taking bets on how long you'd take to show up."

Cort's face burned and he lowered his head, looking through his fringe to scan the room for other occupants. Fortunately it was empty. He approached the bar and drained the whisky in one draught. Rochelle filled him up again and he eyed her nervously.

"I'm not here for the regular services, ma'am; I'm here because I need…"

She misunderstood and flashed him a wicked grin.

"Easy marshal, we all heard how it is right now. Anything you need is on the house you hear? Anything you like. Kitty's a sweet young thing and she's had her eye on you for a while."

Cort blushed again and tried to find a way out of this hole. His silence sent another errant message.

"Kitty!" Rochelle's voice almost deafened him as she yelled up the stairs. "Get down here now sweetheart, somebody to see you."

He tossed down the second glass of whisky and placed the glass on the counter.

"I didn't come here for a woman. I'm here to speak to Foy and I know for a fact he's in one of your rooms".

Her face dropped; the disappointment clear. "He's up in room four but he's busy. Might not take kindly to being interrupted."

Cort smiled. "I'm counting on that."

He made his way upstairs and the whore named Kitty was waiting for him on the landing. Rochelle was right, she was a sweet little thing but his other business was more urgent. He brushed past her with a rueful grin.

"Sorry honey, maybe some other time."

He found room four and stood outside for a while, listening to the action inside. Foy was making enough noise that Cort had no trouble following the story. He listened to the pace quicken, Foy's grunting rising in volume and just before the crucial moment he banged on the door with all his strength, shaking it in its frame.

"This is the marshal, Foy. Get out here and talk to me."

Foy's groan of utter frustration was unmistakable and Cort smiled. Perfect timing.

"For Christ's sake, marshal, I'm right in the middle of something. Come back later."

"Now Foy, or I'm coming through this door."

A minute later the door opened and Foy stood there with a sheet wrapped around his midriff, glaring at Cort like he was about to kill him.

"You sure got lousy timing. I hope nobody comes calling on _you_ like this when you're entertaining."

"Stow it. I'm here for some answers and I figure three weeks is long enough to be waiting."

Foy's bravado evaporated and he looked ready to shit himself. Cort spotted his whore through the open door, watching the scene with wide, curious eyes and he motioned her to get out. He pushed Foy into the bedroom and closed the door. Foy obviously thought he was about to die because he started babbling.

"I'm sorry what happened but I was only doing what Mister Herod said and if I hadn't he'd have killed me for sure. I read the Bible once and it said turn the other cheek and you being a preacher should know about forgiving and since I ain't even got a gun…"

Cort had heard enough. He shoved Foy in the chest, hard enough to send him stumbling back onto the bed.

"Shut up, Foy. I'm not here to kill you or listen to your excuses. I want to know is who that man was, out in the desert that night."

Foy's eyes narrowed and he looked shifty.

"Don't _you_ remember him?"

Cort shrugged. "I thought maybe I imagined him since I couldn't see or think straight. You know why that was, don't you?"

Foy at least had the grace to look ashamed.

"I can't take any of that back but you didn't imagine him. He was real enough."

"Who was he?"

Foy's brow wrinkled in confusion.

"That's Henry Usher. Don't you know him?"

Cort shook his head, he'd never heard the name, never even seen the face until three weeks ago.

"I've been out of circulation. Who is he?"

It seemed Foy still couldn't quite believe his ignorance.

"He's only the most powerful preacher in the territory, and he sure was interested in you."


End file.
